There was a reception at the University on Friday night. The culmination of the team of artists’ efforts over the preceding five days.
I had the distinct pleasure of taking along my blond sidekicks as my dates. They had the distinct pleasure of running up and down the empty corridors of the Professional Faculties building. There were ramps and stairs and long stretches of hallway. It was the most fun they’d had in a while.
What can I say, it had been a dull week.
G now forever associates his father’s place of work as a place where yummy snacks can be found. I’d told him we were going to Daddy’s office to see the (con)struction…and he said: ‘will there be minty treats, like last time?’
We’d been to a holiday reception three weeks prior and there had been some chocolate bars with mint frosting. Apparently they’d made quite an impression on the young man.
Well there weren’t minty treats this time, but all was not lost. There was an assortment of sliced cheeses. Two platters with cut up vegetables and sliced fruit. An assortment of cubed cheeses. (Why sliced AND cubed?) And a plate of cured meats.
I think I could live on food like that. At least for a week. There’s just something enormously appealing about (good!) cheese, fresh veggies and fruit, and cured meats.
I guess I’m a sucker for dried pork and finger foods.
But, what I don’t like is the absence of serving utensils. Maybe I’m getting eccentric in my old age, but this has really started to bother me lately.
It’s pretty hard to separate one slice of cheese, or meat, from another, without touching a slice you aren’t putting on your plate. Which means you’re touching my food. And I’m touching yours. And it’s (barfing) flu season.
My newfound phobia isn’t controlling enough to keep me from eating. But as I stood there, barking at my oldest to simply ‘point’ at the food he’d like [‘don’t touch it!’] so I could remove it with minimal contact…..I couldn’t help but think some spoons or forks would have been nice.
Would it be weird if I start carrying my own serving utensils for situations such as these?
After filling our bellies with (contaminated) goodness, I spent some time trying to keep the Hen away from the ‘automatic’ handicapped door button. A secretary, and fellow mom, took pity on me and brought over a stash of paper cups with which to make towers. And some play-doh. The boys – mostly G – were thrilled
One of the first-year students came over and introduced himself to me. After chatting for a bit, he pointed me in the direction of the communal foosball table. Apparently it was clear to him that my boys needed some entertaining.
Both boys were delighted to pull and twist this thing they’d never seen before. The Hen even climbed onto a chair so he could take a better look – and avoid getting nailed in the head by the metal poles. After a few minutes, we left to begin the long process known as departure.
The Hen was walking in front of me with his dad, when he started crying and running back towards me. My heart swelled as I thought about his profound attachment to me…not even able to be away from me for a second without crying.
Except he ran right past me, in the direction of the foosball table. And when the one-way door wouldn’t budge as he’d hoped…..
Well, there were lots of tears and ear-deafening screams.